u/thelongslog

My first job in show business was as a "runner" for a big TV producer whose series had just sold to syndication for $200,000,000. The office was in a prominent building on Sunset Blvd on the edge of Beverly Hills where lots of older actors and producers maintained an office.

The first two months I was there, the producer, his wife, and their friends were in Southern France for the summer. With him not around there wasn't much to do besides get lunch for his assistant, his bookkeeper, and me. The high point of my week was driving to the bank on Beverly Drive to deposit $20,000,000 checks.

One interminably boring afternoon the producer's assistant, probably in an effort to give me something to do, suggested I go next door to Lucy's office and introduce myself to Wanda, her longtime secretary. "Lucy's office is next door to ours?!"

Wanda couldn't have been nicer. "Lucy isn't in today. Try back tomorrow and if she's in, you can meet her," she said with a big smile. And so every day or two for the next few weeks, that's exactly what I did. And every time, "Sorry, she's not in. Try again tomorrow."

Suddenly the producer got back from France and blew into the office like a tornado. There were a lot more errands which basically consisted of me going to Tiffany's to pick up the gifts he'd buy everyone. The parking attendant in the basement got a watch, so did the building super, even I got one as a Christmas gift. And lunches, lots and lots of lunches. He hated eating out, so I'd pickup takeout on a daily basis. One afternoon everyone wanted Nate'n Al's, so the order was called in for noon. At about 11:30 I left to pick it up.

Our office was at the end of a long hallway, and the elevators were slow. When I heard the ding, I had exactly 9 seconds to get there. Just as I picked up my pace I looked up and saw her. Lucy! Walking right towards me! She was tall, very imposing, wearing a brown suit with a brown low brimmed hat. In the seconds it took for us to meet in the middle of the hallway, I thought of everything I might say. "I grew up watching you, on my grandfather's lap!" "I know every episode by heart!" As she was about to reach me, this was my moment. But then I lost my nerve, too intimidated to say any of those things. All I could muster was a friendly, "Hello!" Lucy smiled, and in what can only be described as what a Camel unfiltered cigarette might sound like if it could talk, "Hello!" And then we walked past.

After that day, I stopped going by to see Wanda. I don't even think Lucy came in at all after that. I'd hate to think I had something to do with that.

My first job in show business was as a "runner" for a big TV producer whose series had just sold to syndication for $200,000,000. The office was in a prominent building on Sunset Blvd on the edge of Beverly Hills where lots of older actors and producers maintained an office.

The first two months I was there, the producer, his wife, and their friends were in Southern France for the summer. With him not around there wasn't much to do besides get lunch for his assistant, his bookkeeper, and me. The high point of my week was driving to the bank on Beverly Drive to deposit $20,000,000 checks.

One interminably boring afternoon the producer's assistant, probably in an effort to give me something to do, suggested I go next door to Lucy's office and introduce myself to Wanda, her longtime secretary. "Lucy's office is next door to ours?!"

Wanda couldn't have been nicer. "Lucy isn't in today. Try back tomorrow and if she's in, you can meet her," she said with a big smile. And so every day or two for the next few weeks, that's exactly what I did. And every time, "Sorry, she's not in. Try again tomorrow."

Suddenly the producer got back from France and blew into the office like a tornado. There were a lot more errands which basically consisted of me going to Tiffany's to pick up the gifts he'd buy everyone. The parking attendant in the basement got a watch, so did the building super, even I got one as a Christmas gift. And lunches, lots and lots of lunches. He hated eating out, so I'd pickup takeout on a daily basis. One afternoon everyone wanted Nate'n Al's, so the order was called in for noon. At about 11:30 I left to pick it up.

Our office was at the end of a long hallway, and the elevators were slow. When I heard the ding, I had exactly 9 seconds to get there. Just as I picked up my pace I looked up and saw her. Lucy! Walking right towards me! She was tall, very imposing, wearing a brown suit with a brown low brimmed hat. In the seconds it took for us to meet in the middle of the hallway, I thought of everything I might say. "I grew up watching you, on my grandfather's lap!" "I know every episode by heart!" As she was about to reach me, this was my moment. But then I lost my nerve, too intimidated to say any of those things. All I could muster was a friendly, "Hello!" Lucy smiled, and in what can only be described as what a Camel unfiltered cigarette might sound like if it could talk, "Hello!" And then we walked past.

After that day, I stopped going by to see Wanda. I don't even think Lucy came in at all after that. I'd hate to think I had something to do with that.

In the mid 90's with my TV writing career sputtering along, I worked as a bartender at a world class hotel in Beverly Hills. There were two shit shifts, Saturday and Sunday days, and they were mine. One Saturday morning I emerged from the back room holding a rack of glasses to find Lindsey Buckingham sitting at the bar. He ordered a beer and just sat there. He told me he was having work done to his house and that he was staying in the hotel for the weekend. He couldn't have been nicer. He talked about the band and the music; he ate lunch and read the newspaper. About 4:30 the bar started getting busy and he looked like he was feeling uncomfortable, but he stuck it out until the end of my shift. It was just a great day! After he paid the check and tipped me really well, he asked, "You here tomorrow?" And I would be.

​

After my shift I went to Amoeba Records and bought a copy of Tusk.

​

The next morning when I opened the bar, there was Lindsey Buckingham. We picked up right where we left off. A few hotel employees came by to say hi. Lunch, the newspaper, he went upstairs to take a nap, before coming back after. When the night bartenders came in I was done. Again another great tip, and I said goodbye. On my way out of the bar I stopped by and handed him the album wrapped in a napkin. I told him I could get fired for doing this, but I'd love if he signed it, and I went in the back office to count my drawer. When I swung back through, he handed the album to me and said, "Of all the Fleetwood Mac albums you could've asked me to sign, this is my favorite. Nice going!" I took the album and left.

​

A year or two later I was in the Beverly Center with my girlfriend. Lindsey saw me from a distance, and came over to say hello.

In the mid 90s, I was a writer (non-union, those cheap fuckers!) on a terrible dating show where your friends interview prospective dates. The best part of working on this show was where it shot, Sunset Las Palmas Studios. This was an old time studio lot. Everything in the 50s/60s was shot there, the first two seasons of I Love Lucy, the Beverly Hillbillies. One morning, Dean, the other disgruntled writer announced that he'd met an old timey show business manager named Irving Fine who still represented George Burns, who in his 90s then, was still going in everyday. "Let's go up!" Later that day we went upstairs, said hello to Irving, and he ushered us in and made the introduction.

​

The office looked like a hoarder lived there. Piled high were scripts and file folders and pictures, on the furniture, on the floor. Every inch of wall space was framed photographs. George sat in a very high director's chair behind the desk smoking a cigar. For five solid minutes he rattled off little insults about how we looked or what we were wearing. Irving piped in that we were writing on a dating show on the second floor. George then made jokes about who'd date us. We were on the floor laughing the entire time. When he'd had enough of us he said, "Now get the hell out of here." And we left.

In the late 80s I was in LA working as a PA on some forgettable TV shows. My girlfriend at the time lived in a guest house in Mt. Olympus in the Hollywood Hills. One morning when I was leaving to go to work, I saw Bruce Springsteen messing with his car in the driveway next door. Having grown up in New York, I was huge fan. I'd seen him in concert a dozen times. But wanting to be respectful, I said nothing. What I did do was go to the Amoeba Records on La Brea and buy a copy of Born To Run which I kept in the backseat.

A few weeks later, again on my way to work, there was Bruce, fiddling with his car, when we made eye contact. I approached, telling him how much he meant and how important his music was to me. I referenced some of my favorite shows, like a total fanboy. He couldn't have been nicer or more appreciative, just genuine in every way. He asked if I lived in the house. I told him no, with my girlfriend out back, which he laughed at. Then I went to my car and got the album and a pen. I explained I'd seen him before and bought it, "just in case." When I handed it to him the album it was still in the plastic which he tore through. Then he did the oddest thing, he opened it up and started reading lyrics, looking for mistakes he said. Then he closed up the album, autographed it, and handed it back to me. "Look, you're a great guy, but please don't tell anyone where I live." And we shook on it.